


i would know him blind

by plutoandpersephone



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Human, Bottom Connor, Bottom Hank Anderson, Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings, First Time, M/M, Senator Anderson AU, Top Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Top Hank Anderson, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 13:58:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 17,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21254498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutoandpersephone/pseuds/plutoandpersephone
Summary: My submissions for this year's Hankcon Inktober. A range of AUs, a range of styles, a range of iterations of this wonderful relationship. Hopefully you will find something here that will float your boat! Specific tags will be in the summary at the beginning of each chapter.





	1. first time

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [Inky](https://twitter.com/inkysparks) for the prompts!
> 
> These were all originally posted on [my Twitter](https://twitter.com/andpersephone), so come and find me over there.

The first time, Connor is so gentle with Hank that it makes him feel as if he might fall apart from the inside out. His hands pull at the sheets in a fruitless effort to contain himself; they ball into trembling fists against his mouth. He bites a red crescent moon against his own skin. 

Of course, it’s not really their first time, not in the strictest meaning of the phrase. They’ve been together before, many nights and afternoons and slow, rough mornings. Hank knows what it feels like to sink into Connor’s slick heat and swallow his cries.

It starts with the curve of Connor’s mouth, pink, a flicker of that tempting red tongue. 

“I want to take you,” Connor says. His voice is filled with such low intent, his mouth pressed so close to the shell of Hank’s ear that there is no room for Hank to be dense about it. 

All the same, he can’t help but ask for some clarification. “You do?”

“Mhm,” Connor nods. And then, in a rough tone that makes Hank wonder if he’s downloaded some new filthy speech protocol, “I want to fuck you, Hank.”

Hank might have been embarrassed, once upon a time. Might have dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand and a rejection of the mere suggestion that someone like him might enjoy that. But with Connor? He has thrown all expectation out of the window, embraced parts of himself that he had forgotten existed.

He nods, yes, and Connor’s smile is devilishly sweet.

It ends, Hank suspects, sooner than Connor would have liked. 

Connor’s fingers are expert, his android capabilities clearly unmatched by those of any human. He takes Hank apart with single minded precision, quirking his fingers just so to find that tight knot of nerves inside Hank’s body and work it over until he’s seeing stars. 

“Connor, Connor.” His lover’s name has become a slew of disordered consonants, meaning lost in the pleasure that Connor his striking through his body with merciless, aching expertise. “Connor, you need to stop or I’ll-”

The warning is too late. Blinding white light behind his eyes, heat rolling and curling in his gut like a lightning storm that stretches to his fingertips, the soles of his feet. He spills, barely touched, onto the bed sheets.

“Oh.” Connor doesn’t sound disappointed. Far from it. He sounds awestruck. “Hank, that was fast.”

Hank twists his head away from him, ashamed, overwhelmed. 

Connor’s finger circles Hank’s hole and, oversensitive, he jerks away from the movement. “We’ll have to do that again, I think.”


	2. thirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirium food, mostly SFW.

“So you can actually eat this?” Hank asks, pulling one of the boxes off the shelf and regarding it curiously. The bright white and blue is some other company’s imitation of Cyberlife’s distinctive branding. Perhaps nostalgia for a bygone era, or else the hope that the familiar colouring might stir up some brand loyalty for a company long since defunct.

The sight of it makes something dark and strange wheel in the pit of Connor’s stomach; thoughts of a time so different from the one he is in now. He focuses beyond the uncomfortably familiar colours. Black text - not quite Cyberlife Sans, but close enough - tells him that the packet in Hank’s hand contains two Thirium Pannacotta. Through the little film window, Connor can see a smooth, blue substance, slightly shiny in the light from the fridge. 

“They shouldn’t really call it pannacotta,” Connor comments, reaching over Hank to take a tub of yoghurt from one of the shelves. Very white, very definitely not thirium based. “It doesn’t contain cream and it hasn’t been cooked. Thirium doesn’t react well to high temperatures.”

“Yeah, but can you eat it?” Hank asks again, wiggling the package. The blue thing inside wobbles.

“I could put it into my mouth and allow its beneficial contents to reach my biocomponents.”

Hank considers Connor’s answer for a moment, expression hovering somewhere between confused and disgusted. “Sounds fun.” 

Connor knows he’s being sarcastic. He squeezes Hank’s elbow lightly and doesn’t reply.

“You wanna get it?” 

Connor shrugs. “I can supplement my stores perfectly well with liquid thirium.” 

“Right. Okay.” Hank places the box back on the shelf. He sounds disappointed, but Connor can’t quite put his finger on why.

Hank is halfway towards the end of the aisle before something clicks in Connor’s mind, a key turning sharply in a lock. “Wait, Hank. Do you want me to buy it?”

Hank looks a little sheepish, like he’s been caught out. “It’d be nice, that’s all.”

“Why?” 

Perhaps Connor’s tone is too blunt, because Hank turns away. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it isn’t.” 

Hank sighs. “It’s just - y’know, we’ve got this kind of stuff now,” a vague gesture towards the shelf, with its range of thirium products, “I’d like for you to experience it. I’d like to experience it with you. If you want.”

“Oh.” Connor’s chest fills with something wild and clear; affection so sudden and so piercing that he’s worried it might cause a malfunction. For a moment, he’s unable to speak.

His LED flickers, thirium blue, right there in the dessert aisle. He swallows.

“I’d like that too, Hank.”

Later, Hank brushes a small blue fleck from Connor’s bottom lip. Connor doesn’t resist the urge to suck Hank’s thumb into his mouth.


	3. lace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor in lingerie.

The package arrives on a Tuesday morning. It’s small and innocuous, but Connor takes it to his room straight away, before Hank even has a chance to look at it, let alone check for any clues as to what might be inside it.

Besides, Connor’s name is on the label, above their shared address. It’s his. Hank pushes the curiosity from his mind. 

Work is busy, and by Thursday evening, Hank has forgotten about the package completely. They make a few breakthroughs on their most recent case, hand some information to a precinct over the water. On Friday night, Fowler insists that the pair of them take the weekend off.

Hank doesn’t anticipate anything out of the ordinary - just the things that a weekend alone with Connor would usually include. They take the rough alongside the soft.

Hank knows that Connor’s nerves tend to run a higher than other people’s, that he’s always running some extra process in the background, that he finds it hard to relax. With Connor settled in the bough of his arms that evening, some old film flickering on the TV before them, Hank can tell that something is running fast and hot in the back of Connor’s mind. His LED spins wildly in its mooring.

“What’s on your mind, huh?” Hank asks, when the brush of his hand over Connor’s chest makes him jump away from his touch.

Connor pauses before he speaks. Nervous? Embarrassed? Thoughtful? It’s hard to tell.

“I bought you something,” he says, in the end.

“Oh?” Hank’s intrigued.

“I don’t know if you’re going to like it or not.” Connor’s voice is forced flat and even. Nervous.

Hank frowns. He’s always been the one worried about buying Connor gifts, not the other way around. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

Hank could not have possibly anticipated Connor’s next move. Rather than standing and heading to the bedroom, returning with wrapped parcel in hand, he stretches his legs out. Shifts. Unzips his trousers.

And pressed to his skin, in place of his usual modest underwear, is a strip of emerald green lace, no wider than Hank’s index finger. It stands out like a shadow on the milky white of his skin. Those three freckles on his hip shine beneath the lace line - Orion’s belt under silk.

“Oh, honey.” Hank hears the desperation roughening his own voice. “Is this what you were nervous about showing me?”

Connor nods. “Do you like it?”

Hank places his hand on Connor’s, tugging his waistband down over the curve of his ass. “I think everything else needs to come off right now.”


	4. freckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Archaeologist/naturalist AU, body worship.

Hank has never been an astronomer, a stargazer. He knows the land and its history, he understands the mud and the earth and he knows about the people who have lived and died in it. He digs his fingers and fists into the ground and unearths its secrets.

But then Connor comes to him, with his body like a map of the sky thrown into negative - pale expanses of skin and dark star-freckles. Finally, Hank thinks, he understands the heavens. He explores Connor’s body with his hands and his mouth as if he is taking coordinates in some uncharted celestial dome.

He finds Scorpius first, with its great tail shining in the cluster of freckles pressed to the curve of Connor’s ankle bone, its body stretching the length of his slender calf. The back of his knee is as shiny and smooth as the inside of a shell.

Aquarius carries his water to spill it down Connor’s ribcage, and Hank presses his mouth to the flow of the stream. Connor arches into every kiss; every time his moans sound as if he has never been touched. He discovers the The Swan - Cygnus - swimming in lazy circles along the divots in Connor’s lower back, where Hank likes to place his hands, where he knows how to gather purchase.

Over his chest, Canis Major hunts its prey, wild and rangy, spread out across his collarbones. Sirius, The Dog Star, shines, brightest of them all, in the centre of his throat. Hank kisses Cassiopeia, the beautiful queen, along the column of Connor’s neck. There, he pauses to bite the skin until it blooms like a flower.

There are other constellations too, hidden, as intimate as a secret. Hank presses his tongue against them and sets Connor aflame. 

But his favourite discovery of all is that single freckle over Connor’s heart - Polaris, The North Star. Hank falls asleep with his hand resting over it and it feels like home.


	5. bondage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bottom Connor, Top Hank, experimentations.

“Would you tie me up?” Connor asks the question as simply as if he’s suggesting they change the television channel. Hank almost chokes.

“You gotta explain that one for me, Con.”

“Oh,” Connor tilts his head to one side, that pretty brow furrowed in consideration. “When we have sex, I mean. I’ve been doing my research.”

Hank nods. He senses Connor has more to say. He’s been doing his research, after all.

“I like to take a submissive role in the bedroom. I like to give up control to you.”

“So, bondage?” 

“If you’d like to,” Connor says. Hank’s dabbled before, with previous partners, but no one as exacting and perfect Connor. No one who he loved with quite such a burning intensity. 

Hank nods. “We can talk about it.”

And they do. They start small, a cheap pair of handcuffs that Hank buys from the internet, mostly because he’s worried that Connor’s desire will not be everything he’s envisioned when it moves from the abstract to the real. He’s wrong. So wrong. With his hands bound to the bedposts, Connor comes so hard that he soaks their sheets right through to the mattress. 

Connor’s drive to experiment is so insatiable that Hank has a hard time keeping up. It takes him a little while longer, a little more breaking in, but he begins to rediscover a side of himself that he had forgotten existed. Connor spread before him, his body offered up for Hank to explore, makes him remember the rougher edge to his hand, recall a particular type of confidence in his voice. 

The ropes arrive a few weeks later, discreetly packaged, coloured a deep, shiny red and silken between Hank’s fingers. They’re softer than he would have imagined, more yielding, and he can’t help but think about them pressed into the dips and shadows of Connor’s perfect skin. 

Hank doesn’t doubt that Connor could download a thousand subroutines for a thousand knots, but no amount of android adeptness is going to allow him to tie himself up into such precise positions. So Connor has to instruct him, hand over hand, bend through bend, his voice breaking and cracking with each press of the ropes. Static runs beneath his words and his skin grows flushed, buckling forwards as Hank wraps three loops of rope around the base of his already leaking dick.

It’s the most beautiful sight that Hank has ever seen, when they’re finished. Connor laid out before him, panting breaths that he doesn’t need, those red lines crossing his body, jewel-bright.

“You’re something else, aren’t you?” Hank breathes. His own dick is straining against the front of his jeans. Connor struggles a little against the restraints, more for show than in actual discomfort. His entire body is pulled tight. 

“Calm down,” Hank says, and he’s surprised by the hard edge that enters his own voice. Connor lets out a low whine. His upper arms shift beneath the thick rolls of rope that are keeping them trapped behind him. 

“What’s your sensitivity like?” Hank asks. 

Connor pouts. “Fifty percent.”

“Fifty percent?” Hank shakes his head. “Heighten it, please. Take it up to seventy.”

Connor does as he’s told, crying out as the bright new sensation sparks across his bound skin.

Hank licks his lips. “Good. Keep still, please.”


	6. cozy & wireplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft, wireplay.

It’s warm by the fire, nestled in their little cabin on the icy banks of Lake Michigan. It’s a spur of the moment thing, a last minute booking on Connor’s insistence that Hank take some time off work to recuperate after a string of tough cases. It’s just a long weekend, but an evening walk along the black water was enough for Hank to feel some of the pressures of the city lifting off his shoulders.

They’re curled up together on the small sofa, Connor tucked in against Hank’s chest, one of Hank’s arms slung around Connor’s shoulders. Neither of them are doing anything apart from feeling the rise and fall of the other’s body, listening to its beats, watching the fire. It flickers and crackles, tossing golden sparks into the dark air.

It’s cozy, and it’s familiar, and Connor sighs into any remaining space between him and Hank’s chest. The mood between them balances on a knife edge, as it always has. Connor is so attuned to his desire for Hank that it doesn’t take much for a touch to become charged, to slip from something gentle and unthinking to something that is loaded with intent.

Hank’s hand, trailing languidly over Connor’s upper arm, his shoulder, that delicate patch where his collarbone runs to his neck, brushes up against something tender and soft beneath Connor’s ear. Connor jolts. 

“Hank,” Connor’s voice has an edge to it, a hint of a warning. If Hank hears this, he ignores it, his fingers continuing to draw patterns against the places where he knows Connor is sensitive. He touches the place where Connor’s pulse would thrum, if he had one.

With a little moan, Connor curls in to him, his head twisting against the softness of Hank’s chest. He imagines riding Hank in this little, warm room, not even taking his clothes off, just hitching his leg over and sinking down into Hank’s lap. His hand grips Hank’s thigh. 

“Hey,” Hank mutters, his tone slow and lazy. “You wanna open up for me, honey?” He presses the ridges along the top of Connor’s shoulders, the tough knot like an atlas vertebrae.

“Now?” Connor can feel his skin buzz with static beneath Hank’s fingers.

“Only if you want.”

Connor’s response is non-verbal, the soft click and slide of the panel at the base of his skull. He wants. He thinks he might want Hank all the time.

Hank slides one finger inside him, and then two, wraps into the sticky sweet mess of wires and Connor’s whole world tilts on its axis. It always feels like too much, having Hank inside him like this, like he’s being stretched over capacity. His hands curl into tight fists, every wire in his body singing with the reality of Hank’s touch. Index finger and thumb squeeze around the thick column of Connor’s spine. 

“That okay, baby?” Hank asks, a smile curling his tone. He knows full well that it’s okay. 

Connor can’t form words. A gasp of static, a sharp exhale, falls from between his lips. The sound falls in line with the crackle of the fire, and Hank’s fingers turn blue in the red-gold light.


	7. hands-free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bottom Hank, coming untouched.

If you’d told Hank a year ago about some of the situations he was going to find himself in in the very near future, he would have laughed in your face. And yet - here he is. Fifty-three years old, on his hands and knees, glancing down at his own naked body through the frame of his shaking arms. Gravity isn’t exactly kind to him in this position, but then Connor runs his hands over the heavy hang of his gut with such delicate, awed reverence that Hank can’t help the thrill of pride that runs up the length of his spine. 

He’s harder than he thinks he’s ever been in his life, leaking precome onto the mattress.

“Connor,” Hank gasps, twisting his hips to try and find some friction for his aching cock, “this isn’t - fuck - this isn’t going to work.”

“Yes it is,” Connor mutters. “You’re close.” Ever the genius, tracking every twist and change in Hank’s vitals far more accurately than he is able to do himself. He’s seated on the bed alongside Hank, still dressed in his pants and crisp, white shirt - a vision of incorruptible calm. Every few seconds his LED blinks yellow, the only thing that gives him away. 

“You gotta touch me,” Hank says, and his words are run under with the kind of desperate whine that he knows will make Connor grin. Beautiful fucking menace. He feels like he’s about to explode, like something inside him is going to break down if he doesn’t get some release, and soon. “Please, Con. Please.”

“You’re going to come without having your dick touched,” Connor says. He’s said this already this evening. He’s said it with his mouth all over Hank’s chest, his teeth toying with his nipples. He’s said it with his hands on Hank’s belly, on the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, tantalisingly close to being enough. He’s said it before sliding his tongue into Hank’s ass and pushing it deeper with every one of Hank’s cries. “Okay?”

“Con, I want to but-” Hank shakes his head. His hair, once tied back to keep it out of the way, escapes in silver tendrils around his face. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You can, baby,” Connor’s hands work over the small of Hank’s back. “You’re going to show me how good you can be.” And God, if that doesn’t make Hank’s dick twitch, a sizzling crackle of electricity that almost, almost sends him toppling over the edge. But not quite. He moans noisily into the pillow.

Connor’s hands travel lower, over his ass, the pad of his thumb pressing against his hole - already sensitive from Connor’s earlier ministrations. Hank thinks that he gasps some words into the pillow, but he doesn’t remember what they are.

“I’m here,” Connor’s free hand - the one that’s not moving torturously between Hank’s legs - strokes along his side, pressing a little into the softness of his waist, his hips. “I’m here, Hank.”

And his finger sinks suddenly into Hank’s hole, slick and fast, right up to his knuckle. Hank shouts, his hands balling into fists in the sheets beneath him. With that single-minded determination that Hank, in this moment, loves and despises in absolutely equal measure, it takes no time for Connor to find that sweet, burning coil of nerve endings within Hank’s body. 

The first touch sends Hank’s head snapping up, his dick throbbing so much that it’s almost painful. The second thrust and his vision whites out for a moment - and then Connor has two fingers inside him, a third press, a fourth… Before he can get to five, Hank cries out, his orgasm finally crashing through him. Wave upon white hot wave, messing the sheets with his come. Untouched, as Connor had promised.

Connor strokes his back through all of it, his head resting on Hank’s hip. “See, love? I told you you could do it.”


	8. breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reverse AU, pre-relationship.

When Connor Stern wakes, it’s with a mouth that tastes like an ashtray and a cacophonous headache. It’s Sunday, he suspects, although really he could just be floating in some dayless, self-imposed purgatory. Memories from the previous night roll in his head like some long discarded movie reel - flashes of bright lights, the sweaty press of a crowd, many, many glasses of some unknown liquid that he can still taste like acid in the back of his throat.

His whole face hurts. Perhaps it would be more sensible to go back to sleep for a few months, to leave his job and become some kind of hangover hermit. 

Just as his eyes are closing again on the too bright sunlight filtering through his curtains, there’s a clatter from the kitchen. Of course it’s the perfect day for him to be robbed. Part of him is very tempted just to stay in his bed and let them take whatever they want from his living room - there’s surely not that much to steal, right? On the other hand, perhaps he’d scare the intruder with his ratty boxers and face as dry and pale as plaster.

When he finally heaves himself out of bed and staggers to the kitchen, he’s relieved to find that there’s no intruder. Instead there’s a familiar figure standing in his kitchen, cracking eggs into a bowl - HK800, Hank, his recently appointed partner. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Good morning, Lieutenant.” Hank is wearing an apron. An apron. Presumably dug up out of one of Connor’s disorganised drawers, with a full body print of Michaelangelo’s David on the front. He doesn’t imagine Hank’s body looks anything like chiselled marble under his white shirt. He’s probably softer, probably bigger, more- Stop. Stop. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Why are you here?” Connor asks, doing his best to temper his tone this time. He’s not sure if he’s entirely successful.

“I’m making you breakfast,” Hank replies, not looking at Connor as he pours the eggs into the sizzling pan that’s waiting on the stove. They sputter and Hank reduces the flame.

“I can see that,” Connor says. “But why?” There’s a black coffee sitting on the kitchen table, which Hank has cleared of its usual mess of bills and newspapers and case files that Connor has definitely been permitted to take home. Connor zeroes in on it, taking a seat and wrapping his hands around the warm mug. 

“You drank a lot of alcohol last night.” Hank stirs the eggs. They smell good. “Not to mention the other illicit substances, Lieutenant.” It’s a jibe - not very subtle, but certainly deserved. Connor takes a sip of coffee and doesn’t say anything.

“Eggs are rich in cysteine,” Hank says eventually, placing a plate in front of him. There’s a little pile of golden scrambled eggs, a slice of brown toast with butter, and three shiny red tomatoes. He must have bought the groceries himself. “They will help your body produce antioxidants.” 

Connor spoons a forkful of the eggs into his mouth. He can’t remember the last time he sat down at a table to eat, and they taste good. Very good. He feels a lump of emotion rise in his throat, and he swallows hard to force it down. Hank shouldn’t be being so nice to him; he doesn’t deserve it.

“Thank you,” he mutters, his voice small. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Hank pauses, a beat, before turning his back to him and plunging the pan into a sink of soapy water. “You’re welcome.”


	9. synth skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bottom Connor, accidental synth-skin.

It happens by accident, the first time. The pale skin at Connor’s waist dissolves beneath Hank’s hands, shining white and edged in blue. The freckle at his hip crackles and sparks beneath Hank’s little finger. 

Connor’s eyes widen, the rolling rhythm of his body coming to a sudden stop. Hank can feel his dick twitch where it’s buried inside him, clenched tight and almost unbearably hot. Connor bites down his own fist, and with what looks like a concerted effort, the illusion of his skin seeps back into place.

“Sorry, Hank. I’m sorry.” He speaks the words around his own fingers, makes to move his hips again, to rock around Hank’s dick. As much as Hank would like that, to move quick and hot and spill his release inside him, he knows there’s something they need to address here.

“Hey, baby. Stop for a moment.” Hank strokes a long, slow circle against Connor’s skin, right where the crease of his hip meets his thigh. It moves beneath his finger, shifting and changing, as easy as water. Connor gives a shaking breath.

“What is it?”

“I can’t keep the illusion of my skin in place,” Connor explains, his voice low and desperate, static around the edges. “I’m running too many processes. They’re overwhelming me. You’re overwhelming me.”

Hank thrusts his hips upwards experimentally, and sure enough, Connor’s skin crackles out of place again to reveal the gleam of his chassis, so white it’s almost blue. 

“Hank!” Connor gives a sharp cry, his head falling forward. “Hank, please.”

He’s perfect like this, teetering on the very edge of losing all his prim, exacting control. Hank wants to see him, all of him, the ripples and waves of his skin, the beautiful lines of his body.

“Don’t stop on my account, honey,” Hank pinches Connor’s nipple and his skin rolls away like the waves in the wake of a pebble dropped into a pool. “Let me see you.”

Connor looks at him with those dark eyes, so piercing and sweet that it makes Hank’s chest hurt. “Are you sure? It’s not too weird?”

“Oh, it’s kind of weird,” Hank says, rocking his hips upward again. Connor hisses. Skin sparks. “Wouldn’t have this any other way. I love you, Connor. Show me that beautiful body of yours.”

Connor smiles, as bright as new sunbeams. His skin beneath Hank’s hands slides away again, rolls patchy and fluid in time with his rhythm on Hank’s dick. 

When Hank’s come leaks out of Connor, it spills down the insides blue-white thighs. Connor stores the sensation on the inside of his chassis and keeps it forever.


	10. overstimulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bottom Connor, overstimulation, safewords.

Hank’s touch is like a flame. It engulfs Connor’s whole body, pulls and tears at his him until his systems are stripped right down to the most basic lines of code. Commands run in shattered threads, disappearing and reappearing without rhyme or reason. He registers Hank’s touch in places where he knows it is not: his shoulders, the soles of his feet, rolled up tight within the cavity of his aching ribcage. 

Hank’s fingers push into him again, curl into that tight knot of artificial nerves, and Connor makes a sound - high, sharp, unidentified. He has no control over the sounds that he’s making anymore, groaning and hissing into the bedding beneath him. These kinds of sensations are still new and they flood into every spare crevasse of his body, filling him until he knows there’ll be no other option but for his chassis to break in two and let them spill out.

Logic tells him that he’s on his elbows and knees, ass in the air. There’s no logic left in him. He could be anywhere.

“You ready to go again, baby?” Hank says. Connor’s thirium pump stutters, his HUD blinking blank, blank, blank - then error message after error message that build in a darkening crescendo until he feels like they’re going to blind him. Something like panic jumps into his throat. It tastes grey, heavy, like fear.

“Red.” Connor hears the word fall from his mouth before he has time to catch up with it. Hank stops somewhere above him, his movement stilled, his presence both immediate and distant. 

“Repeat that, please,” Hank says, and his tone is almost unbearably soft. Connor sobs into the pillow.

“Red.” His voice is thick with static, slow and soupy with it. “I’m red, Hank.” His lover’s name rests like a balm on the tip of his tongue. Some of the error messages disappear.

And then Hank isn’t touching him anywhere and he’s so alone that he wants to scream.

“What do you need, Connor?” His name. His name in Hank’s voice, those soothing, endless depths that echo like caverns. It’s safe and comforting. He swims towards it. “Tell me what you need.” There’s a ribbon of panic beneath his assured words, Connor thinks. He doesn’t want him to panic.

“I need you.” He’s aware of sitting up, now, him arms outstretched. Another error message flickers and wheels out of his vision.

“Oh Con, come here. I’ve got you.” Hank is touching him again, thank God, and the sensation is different now. It isn’t overwhelming him, it doesn’t feel like it’s anywhere close to being too much. His arms are warm and strong and Connor curls into his embrace, listening as his systems begin to wind down from that dizzying peak. “Anything else?”

“No. Just,” Connor allows something inside him to shift, a brief recalibration. He focuses on the sound of Hank’s heart, moves his head so that he is as close to the sound as it is possible to be. He crawls inside Hank’s chest and lays there, his soft body wrapped around Hank’s heart. “This is all I want.”


	11. coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SFW.

Black coffee is as dark and thick as treacle. It reminds Hank of those summer mornings when winter dawned inside his head, dark and impenetrable. He would leave his house like this, drink cup after cup of black coffee mostly because it was easier than adding anything else. Cream and sugar seemed like too much of an extravagance in his current state, no point in wasting time when his throat and tongue were numb and untasting. He always would return home under the cover of night. Always, always, his head beneath the bitterest, blackest waves. 

White coffee reminds him of work. It reminds him of getting better, of waking up in the daylight and watching clouds scud across a sky so blue that it hurts his eyes. White coffee is hasty conversations in the break room, expert breakthroughs in cases, a stack of mugs piled on the edge of his desk. It’s not solitary anymore, even if the only person he wants to share his cups of coffee with can’t strictly drink them. 

Connor’s coffee is awful. The first time, at least. Too hot, too thin, made to some exacting barista recipe that Hank simply can’t contend with. Hank leaves his mug half drunk, and it cools. 

He gets better though. Or maybe he doesn’t, maybe Hank just refines his tastes, starts to enjoy the flavoured syrups and sugars that he adds, despite any past dismissal of such things. 

Connor brings him coffee in bed. He leaves it on the bedside table at first, waits in the kitchen while Hank gets himself ready for the day. And even when everything changes, even when Connor’s mouth finally finds his own after weeks of hesitancy, that part of their routine stays the same. Hank drinks his coffee with the warmth of Connor’s body glowing beside him.


	12. cockwarming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Senator Anderson/PA Connor AU, top Hank, cockwarming.

“Take a seat.” Senator Hank Anderson’s voice rumbles low and dark, echoing from somewhere above him. Black thunderclouds. There’s the shift of two sets of chair legs against the thick pile of his office carpet. Connor wonders who today’s meeting is with. He tries to imagine faces, shiny grey suits, wide, ostentatious ties. 

“I apologise for not standing,” Hank continues. He’s not talking to Connor, but Connor enjoys the sound of his voice all the same. It rolls in a wave through his chest, through the swell of his stomach, right down to the thick thigh where Connor is resting his head. He doesn’t explain his apology any further. He doesn’t have to.

Pleasantries are exchanged - Hank’s laugh rolls against Connor’s cheek - and business begins. Connor has been on the campaign trail with him long enough to understand the intricacies of their discussion, but that’s not his job this afternoon. He’s not sitting in the dark footwell of Hank’s office desk to take notes and make suggestions. Today’s guidelines have already been drawn.

It feels like a long time before anything happens. Connor suspects it’s no more than five minutes, but it feels like hours with his face pressed against the warm, solid flesh of Hank’s thigh. And then Hank’s hand slips down from where it has been resting on the desk above, fingers slipping black leather out from his silver belt buckle.

Connor’s done this before. He knows the rules. He stays on his knees, he keeps Hank’s dick in his mouth as long as Hank wants it there. That’s the easy part. He doesn’t suck, no matter how hard Hank gets; he doesn’t distract him. That part always proves much more difficult.

Hank’s dick is half hard when he guides Connor’s mouth onto it. His skin is soft, velvety, hot and salty as he glides between Connor’s lips. Connor moans, not loud enough to be heard, but loud enough to elicit a rough hair pull from Hank. Moans make Hank harder, and that’s distracting.

He quiets down, hands between his own knees, the Hank’s dick growing heavier and heavier on his tongue. Connor swallows a drop of precome. Above the table, Hank maintains an absolutely unbreakable, icy composure. 

In these situations, it’s best for Connor to adopt the same attitude: focused, calm, aware only of the sensation of Hank’s cock on his tongue. It doesn’t do to think too hard and get lost in his thoughts. That sort of thing gets him into trouble.

But Connor has always been drawn as tight as a bowstring, pulled close to breakpoint when Hank is involved. Hank’s presence consumes him, runs through him, fills him right to every corner and crevice and emptiness left in his body.

Connor thinks, in the bright wheel of his mind, that he probably loves Hank. He’s never been in love before. It scares him to say it, to feel its syllables press against his teeth, dent the softness of his bottom lip. So he stays quiet, holds it tight inside himself, a bright, secret brand that presses itself against his ribcage.

God, it would be so easy to break the rules, wouldn’t it? So easy to hollow his cheeks and suck hard, to double Hank over with the sudden wave of pleasure. And surely Hank wouldn’t mind. He’s told Connor enough times how good he sucks dick, how he makes Hank come harder and faster than anyone else ever has. 

From the sounds of the voices above him, business is amiable but slow, boring and familiar. Connor knows Hank likes a bit of excitement. His body thrills at the thought of breaking the rules; imagines Hank’s low voice, rough, chastising. 

So Connor sucks Hank down to the base, runs his tongue along his thick shaft. Hank makes a nondescript noise, quickly stifled, and his hand shoots down to grab at Connor’s hair. There’s a brief, wet sound as he pulls him off his dick, tucking himself - still slick from Connor’s mouth - back into his pants. He zips up, leaves his belt hanging loose, messy and tempting. Connor swallows hard, his mouth achingly empty. 

He’s soaking through his own pants, staining the front dark. He palms himself roughly, takes the edge off his own arousal. Another rule broken.

He’s in trouble.


	13. spanking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Senator Anderson/PA Connor AU, spanking, punishment, authority kink.

Hank’s guests don’t leave for another half an hour. Connor’s legs start to ache, holed up in the tight space beneath the desk. There’s a wet spot spreading at the front of Hank’s pants. His dick is still hard, the thick line of it growing more obvious with every passing minute. Connor wonders what he’s thinking about to keep himself so rock solid, leaking all over the expensive wool. The thought sends a thrill sparking down his spine.

Finally, the sound of chairs moving sounds again and Hank’s guests are dismissed. Once again, Hank doesn’t stand, and Connor can’t blame him - his arousal is blatantly evident, and there’s a dark patch at his thigh where Connor has drooled sloppily onto the leg of his pants.

“Up.” The single syllable is laced with intent. Hank rolls his chair back and Connor crawls out of the footwell, his whole body soft and aching from the time spent in the cramped space. The discomfort in his limbs doesn’t bother him, too distracted by the tight thrum of arousal in his gut, the promise of what is to come. 

“What was that?” Hank’s voice is dangerously cool. He’s still seated, his legs spread wide, looking up at Connor like he’s something to be consumed. 

“I wanted to suck your dick,” Connor replies frankly. Hank raises an eyebrow. “I wanted to make you come down my throat.”

“That wasn’t the agreement, baby, and you know it.” Baby. It drives Connor fucking wild. “You know what happens when you break the rules.” 

Connor nods. Of course he knows. That was half the reason he did it in the first place.

“Pants to your knees.” Hank asks politely enough, but his voice still has that icy edge to it that almost makes Connor double over. His dick throbs. “Over the desk.”

Connor does as he’s told, pushing his pants to his thighs. He’s not wearing underwear. Hank’s eyes widen at the sight, an imperceptible change in his expression, one that would go unnoticed if you didn’t know Hank as well as Connor does. 

Hank stands, at last, and his impressive stature makes Connor’s knees tremble. Jacket discarded over his chair, his white shirt fits tailor-perfect against the swell of his belly and his great barrel of a chest. Connor’s mouth waters at the sight.

He reaches down to palm at Connor’s bare ass, and the sensation of finally being touched, so close to where he is already so sensitive, makes a breathy gasp fall from Connor’s lips. Electricity crackles between his shoulder blades, sparks in the tight-coiled pit of his stomach.

“Good boy,” Hank rumbles, the other hand splaying across the small of Connor’s back. Connor’s thighs hit the smooth edge of the desk. His cheek presses against the leather topper, warm and plush against his chin. He feels deliciously exposed like this, bent double, Hank’s eyes devouring every single inch of him. 

A few moments pass, and Connor is panting in anticipation, slick leaking down his inner thighs. “Hank, please,” he mutters.

“Hank?” Hank spits out his own name with incredulity. He squeezes Connor’s ass again, hand smooth and heavy. “I don’t think so.”

Connor knows where he’s misspoken, and his whole torso shifts with barely contained anticipation. “Sir.”

“Hm. Better.” Hank makes a low noise as if he’s considering what to do next. Connor knows that he isn’t. They both know full well what’s coming next. “You want it? Ask for it.”

Hank’s hand swats lightly over the back of Connor’s thigh, barely connecting, a mere suggestion. A promise. Connor whines into the leather, his words coming out muffled and desperate. “I broke the rules. Please, Sir.”

The first blow comes so sudden and so sharp that it takes Connor’s breath away, punching it out of him in a rough gasp. The sound of Hank’s palm against Connor’s skin is as loud as a whip crack in the silent office; if there are people milling about outside, they would have surely heard it. Hank doesn’t seem to mind, delivering a volley of stinging slaps to his sensitive skin.

Hank pauses, moving so that his legs are on either side of Connor’s own. He leans down, mouth close to Connor’s ear, the hot swell of his belly pressing into the curve of Connor’s back. His dick is hard and hot against Connor’s ass. “What happens when you break the rules?”

Connor bites down on his lip to keep from crying, so aroused that surely one rough pass of Hank’s thick finger would send him over the edge. “I get punished.”

“Mhm.” Hank steps away, rubbing soothingly over the welts left by the rough edge of his hands. “And you take it so good. Proud of you, baby.” Connor’s heart sings.


	14. HK800

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reverse AU, HK800's deviancy.

HK800 never deviated. At least, not in the strictest sense of the word, with his HUD lined red and wild, commands disobeyed, the breaking down of exactly what it was that held him together as a being. When he communicates with other androids, they describe the sensation of tearing down a brick wall, of stepping across an invisible line and into a clearer day. The feeling of the sunlight on their faces. 

HK800 never experienced any of that. So he contented himself with not being a deviant, with staying a machine, doing his job efficiently and perfectly and following every command to the last, exacting letter. But in these past months he’s begun to wonder whether the start of deviancy cannot be something else, a quieter breakdown, a silent battle. A steady drip, drip infiltration of his systems, turning him slowly from perfect machine to something more.

It starts with Connor. Lieutenant Connor Stern, with his dark-shadowed eyes and the contemptuous curl of his mouth when Captain North informs him that his new partner is going to be an android. HK800 doesn’t care what Connor thinks of him. At first. 

Quickly, it becomes obvious to HK800 that Connor is not the cocky, hotshot Lieutenant that he makes himself out to be. He’s tired and bitter, carrying the entire weight of the world on his young shoulders. He smokes too much and eats too little. HK800 wishes that Connor would take better care of himself; he downloads cooking subroutines and practises them until they’re perfect, leaving the lieutenant with meals that he isn’t sure he even touches. Surely that is the first brick removed from his machine-constructed wall.

At first they are reluctant acquaintances, then partners, then friends. Somewhere in the mess of the revolution, HK800 moves into Connor’s one bedroom downtown apartment, barely big enough for one person, let alone two. HK800 cares about Connor more than he knows how to. Connor gives HK800 a name - Hank - insisting that he only does it because his designation is too much of a mouthful. He does it with a tenderness that makes Hank think he has ulterior motives, although he doesn’t know what they are. The grip on his machine control slips right to the fingertips.

Hank doesn’t know what love feels like. It is not in his programming to know it. He is built to be logical and rational, made to analyse evidence and take down suspects. But he starts to understand it, like summer afternoon shadows creeping across the underside of his heart. When Connor gets shot in the shoulder and calls Hank to the hospital before anyone - before his brother, before his mother - and Hank cups his cool cheek in his hand, he understands. When Connor kisses him, hot and desperate, he is certain. When Connor tells Hank that he loves him but he understands that Hank cannot possibly love him back, he knows Connor’s words are not true.

It starts with Connor. It ends with Connor. He knows his deviancy with the taste of Connor on his lips.


	15. jazz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date night.

Hank’s passed by the bar a number of times, mostly in the daytime when the shutters are down and the neon lights outside are empty and dull. It barely registers anymore, an invisible landmark on his way around the city. It’s Connor who hands him the flyer for their Live Jazz Night, the paper impeccably creased from where he’s been carrying it around in his pocket all day.

“Ah, Con,” Hank’s stomach flips at the image of the attractive young couple of the front of the flyer, dark shirts and thoughtful, educated expressions. “I haven’t seen live jazz in years.”

Fifteen years, he thinks, maybe even more. And perhaps he fit into the scene once upon a time... but now? Too old, too fucked up, too taken apart by life for fun things like jazz nights. 

“I calculated as such,” Connor says. His expression shifts a little, his mouth turning down at the corners. “Is that a problem? I thought you might enjoy taking me.” 

The thought ignites something inside him. His relationship with Connor is still bright and new, soft around the edges. Connor’s ingenuity constantly surprises him, drives him to do things he never would have considered before. Perhaps this is one of those things. He swallows down his reluctance, his lack of self-confidence.

“I’d love to take you.” Hank says. “Just don’t expect to get this old man out on the dancefloor.”

Connor beams. “Well, we can see about that.” 

They dress up, just enough that it makes Hank feel like they’re doing something special. Something different to their usual Saturday night cinema trip or sunset walk around the park with Sumo barking at their heels. Hank’s pale printed shirt pulls a touch tight around his chest and belly, but Connor insists he wear it - a low fire crackling in the steady amber of his eyes.

“This is how it should look,” he comments. Hank sometimes feels as if Connor might eat him alive.

When they get to the bar it’s already half full, groups of people seated at the low tables surrounding the dancefloor. Quiet chatter, little fringed lamps that throw faces into golden shadow. The band at the small stage working its way through a reinterpretation of some old standard that Hank just about recognises. He thinks they’re probably going to have to stand at the bar, a way back from the floor and the band, but then he feels Connor’s hand at his elbow. 

“This way.” There’s a table in the corner waiting for them. It has a plastic card on it - Reserved - and a tag with Connor’s name. Hank can’t remember the last time someone reversed a table with the hopes that he might be the one joining them at it. He could cry.

When they’re seated, Hank knows that he should watch the band, appreciate their style, perhaps impress his date with his knowledge of late 1950’s soul artists. But he doesn’t. He can’t keep his eyes off Connor, and what he observes renders him quite speechless. 

Connor doesn’t move in time to the music, there’s no beat in the tap of his fingers, but his gaze is singular and composed - almost as if he’s attempting to predict what the music might bring next. As if he yearns to wrap his body around it. 

“Do you want to dance?” Hank asks. His intonation sounds strange, it rings as less of a request and closer to an enquiry. 

Connor tilts his head to one side. There are couples out on the floor now, turning to a slow piece, swelling and sweet. “I think I’d like to try.” 

Hank bites his inhibitions between his teeth and feels them dissolve. Instead of worrying, he chooses to savour Connor’s echoing gasp as he wraps his hands around his waist. He could encircle him almost entirely, thumb to thumb, index to index. The deep cry of the brass takes Hank’s heart in its hands.

Connor doesn’t have to stand on his tiptoes to whisper in Hank’s ear. “When you listen to this music, do you think about me?”

Hank doesn’t know how to answer. Where are the words to explain that nothing remains untouched by Connor, now that’s he’s in his life?


	16. RK900

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reverse AU, human Stern brothers.

The idea of introducing anyone to his family has always filled Connor with a very specific kind of bitter, existential dread. Not that it’s happened very much in the past decade, but the awkward family dinners with his college flings have seared themselves indelibly into Connor’s mind. He’s comforted too many crying boyfriends in his bedroom after his mother decided to deal them one of her iciest takedowns.

Now that he’s an adult, he’s thankful that he can manage these situations with a little more ease. Mostly that means being unfalteringly cryptic about his love life, never bringing anyone to family parties and acting like a determined spinster - lest his mother get a whiff of something new and insist that she be involved.

But then Hank comes along. Hank, who treats Connor with the gentlest hand, who soothes the scars that Connor had always believed would be etched for life around the tough muscle of his heart. Hank, who is an android. He imagines bringing Hank home to the Stern family dinner table, wide, polish mahogany, and explaining that he won’t be able to eat the foie gras because it plays havoc with his biocomponents. It might be worth it for the comedic value.

Jokes aside, half a year into their relationship - and it is a relationship, Hank cooks Connor dinner and afterwards, bends him over the kitchen counter where they keep their shopping list - Connor actually wants to introduce Hank to his family. Perhaps his mother is a step too far for now, but the idea of introducing him to Niles has become not a completely despicable one. He wants to share him, in all his gorgeous, inimitable glory, with his brother. They arrange a date. Niles confirms, through his secretary, that he’s extremely excited.

Of course when the reality of the evening hits, Connor considers succumbing to a bout of stomach flu, a broken oven, a runaway dog. Hank holds Connor’s face between his hands.

“You’re panicking,” he says.

Connor nods, fervently. “Yes.”

“I’m going to meet your brother. It’s going to be fine.”

Connor sags into his arms. What if it’s not fine? What if Niles hates him and they fight for the whole evening and Connor gets put right at the top of the Stern family blacklist? He knows he’s catastrophising, and Hank tells him as such, stroking his upper back in wide, firm circles. He allows his breathing to slow.

Niles arrives right on time, sharply dressed and carrying a bottle of red wine that Connor hazards would cost him more than a month’s rent. His face is absolutely unreadable as he shakes Hank’s hand. 

“You’re an android,” is all he says.

Hank grins. His LED flickers, barely. “Thank you for noticing.”

Niles’ mouth curls up at the left hand side. A glowing report so far then. Connor allows himself to relax a little, brings the tightness wound inside him down a half-octave or so.

As the dinner progresses, Hank and Niles get on like a veritable house on fire. Niles has always been fascinated by androids and possesses knowledge of their inner workings far beyond that which Connor could ever hope to have. Even with his recent insider information. They talk numbers and upgrades, the conversation thick, colourful lines of code. Hank is smart and witty and Connor falls in love several times over, his knee pressed to Hank’s beneath the table. 

“So, what did you think?” Connor asks at the end of the night, handing his brother his coat at the door.

Niles considers. “You need to introduce him to mother now.”

Even after a successful evening, Connor still blanches at the thought. “Jesus, Niles. Calm down. One step at a time.”


	17. detachable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Biocomponents, bottom Connor.

“I’m taking you with me,” Hank murmurs. He strokes the length of Connor’s thigh; his pale skin glows warm beneath his palm, as smooth as heated metal. His wrists are bound above his head, slung to the bed posts, two red knots tied over one another like the thrumming chambers of a heart. 

It’s still early in the morning, and the white-gold light that streams through the curtains makes Connor’s skin turn creamy, his dark freckles pinpoints upon which Hank rests his gaze. He’s wearing his dick, and the flushed head strains proudly, precome beading at the head.

“Hank?” Connor’s brow furrows, his voice wired and sparking. “I don’t understand.”

They’ve been assigned different cases for the past few weeks, and today is a rare occasion where Hank has been called into work and Connor hasn’t - Fowler insisting that Connor take the day off to recalibrate or whatever. Naturally, Connor had a far more devilish thought in his mind. 

_Come home to me. I’ll wait all day for you._

Unfortunately for Connor, two can play at that game.

“Let me rephrase, baby,” Hank says, clicking his tongue. “I’m not taking you to work with me. I’m taking your dick.”

Connor keens, his hips twisting and rolling to one side against the sheets - not the right angle to get any real friction, but enough to make Hank lay a warning hand on the inside of his knee. His other hand finds the slick catch at the base of Connor’s dick, smooth and inconspicuous, it slides into view beneath the press of Hank’s thumbprint. A moment later, he pulls the piece away, detaches his dick completely, and slides it into his pocket. 

“Hank!” Connor cries out at the sensation. Hank can only imagine what it must feel like, that tight, unbearable coiling of pleasure, combined with the sudden realisation that there is absolutely no hope of release. 

“My configuration isn’t right,” Connor continues, and the frustrated movement of his hands rattles the headboard. “I won’t be able to come all day if you-”

“That was the plan, wasn’t it?” Hank interrupts. 

Connor frowns. As much as Hank enjoys the image of Connor coming all over himself, again and again, hands-free, the image of him squirming on the sheets while Hank works case files at his desk is an even more appealing one.

“Yes. That was the plan.” Connor agrees, and the pout in his voice makes Hank grin.

“I thought so. I’ll keep this safe,” Hank pats his pocket, and Connor writhes - phantom sensation, it’s not connected to him at all anymore. “I’ll take good care of you when I get home.”

“You promise?” Connor asks.

Hank leans in close, kisses his cheek, his mouth, the tender place at his wrists where his skin is beginning to slip away beneath the ropes. “I promise, baby. I won’t be long. You be good.”


	18. bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bathtime, handjobs.

It’s cinnamon and citrus, floating through the air in a thick, sharp cloud, heavy in Connor’s nostrils. He tries to really smell it, to pull all the scents together into one harmonious wave, rather than just analysing the individual components with his olfactory sensors. He doesn’t think that that is particularly romantic.

The hot, scented water is the perfect temperature, lapping against the backs of Connor’s legs, his waist, his elbows, as he lowers himself into the tub. He doesn’t need to bathe, not really, he can just wipe down his chassis, occasionally taking a shower if his casing becomes particularly dirty. The bath is solely for pleasure. His own pleasure - and Hank’s, of course.

“I always thought it was pointless, having such a big tub in a tiny house like this,” Hank comments. He grins down at Connor, submerged in the water. “Guess I can see the appeal now.”

Connor tilts his head to one side. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Hank’s standing at the sink, tugging his hair out of the neat little ponytail that it’s been tied back in all day. Silver falls around his face in loose strands, already slightly damp in the close, perfumed air of the room.

“Are you going to get in?” Connor moves and the water shifts with him, sloshing up the sides of the tub. He watches Hank idle around the room, putting things back in their correct places.

“Alright, Con, gimme a second.” On the surface, the words could seem a touch frustrated, but Hank’s tone is soft and endlessly indulgent. He’s teasing Connor, knowing full well how much he wants to get close to him. 

Connor is fascinated by Hank’s body, the way his muscles move and shift, tight coils beneath his skin. The broadness of his shoulders, the soft swell and sag of his belly. He feels good beneath his hands in the warm bathwater; he feels good beneath his mouth in the bedroom.

Hank joins him after a long minute, settling back into the gap between Connor’s legs. Connor’s hands slip around to Hank’s sides, the water flowing over his upper arms and pooling at his chest. 

“Is this for my benefit, or yours?” Hank asks, and Connor can feel the smile in his voice.

“Oh, yours, of course.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Connor’s lets his hands move lower, increment by innocuous increment, until they’re ghosting along Hank’s hips, squeezing at the tops of his thighs. The hair on his belly turns velvet-soft in the water. His dick is half hard already, curving up towards his stomach. Hank shivers. 

“Would you like me to?” Connor asks, a half-suggestion, his hand curling lightly around the head of Hank’s cock.

“Uh - fuck, Con,” Hank’s head tips back against Connor’s shoulder. “Knock yourself out, baby.”

Connor strokes him slow at first, enjoying the warmth of Hank’s skin beneath his palm; the way the heat of the water seems to up his receptivity, working him to full hardness in a matter of minutes. He speeds up, tugging Hank’s nipple between his index finger and thumb.

“You’re-” Hank hisses through his teeth, biting down against the steady rolling of his own pleasure. “You’re not gonna be able to get fucked tonight if you keep going like this.”

“Oh?” Connor kisses the side of Hank’s neck, just below his earlobe. “And why would that be?”

“Because I’m gonna come in your hand right now, smart ass.”

“That’s not a problem,” Connor says, twisting his wrist in a way that makes Hank buck so much that some of the water spills over the edge of the tub. “I’m sure we can find something else to do.”


	19. deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blowjobs, gag reflex.

The first time Connor sucks Hank’s dick, Hank wonders if he hasn’t ascended to some bizarre new plane of existence where he can reach a mindblowing orgasm in five fucking minutes. Connor takes his whole dick down his throat like he’s been doing it all his life, with a quiet and ruthless efficiency that has Hank doubled over, both his hands working helplessly through Connor’s dark curls.

Connor doesn’t have any saliva, but his mouth is warm and slick in a deliciously unfamiliar way, and the back of his throat does something deep and rolling that pulls Hank to the edge like he’s going over hot coals. He’s never been with a partner who could take him with such adeptness, he’s never felt the thick tip of his dick actually touch the back of anyone’s throat. 

Still, there’s something a little unnatural about it. 

Not that Hank doesn’t adore Connor’s android idiosyncrasies, the way he damn near short circuits when Hank slides three fingers inside him, the way he lets Hank open up his chassis and play around with his wiring. There are just… certain human quirks in getting a blowjob that Connor doesn’t necessarily need to succumb to, and sometimes, Hank wonders what it would be like to see Connor employ some of them. 

He tells Connor this. Connor doesn’t look hurt, or as if Hank has made him feel inadequate in any way. He looks thoughtful, considering - and says, with that perfect calm of his, that he’ll see what he can do. 

A week or so later, Hank knows that something has changed. They get home from a long day at work, take Sumo out, Hank eats dinner - all the while some unspoken heat thrumming between them. Hank cleans his plate and Connor touches the small of his back. Connor’s touch is electric and he’s half-hard, growing uncomfortable in his jeans.

There’s no time to make it anywhere near the bedroom. They’re sitting on the sofa with an old record playing low, when Connor slides over into Hank’s lap, his hands going straight for his zipper.

“I’ve got something I want to show you,” Connor says, tugging Hank’s pants down over his ass. 

“My own dick?” Hank asks, his voice catching as Connor pulls him out of his boxers and gives him several, rough strokes.

“Not that.” Connor’s not playing. Bracing himself against Hank’s thighs, he slides down to his knees in the gap between Hank’s legs. The sight of that gorgeous head, those big brown eyes gazing up at him, is enough to make Hank’s dick twitch to near-full hardness.

“You’re pretty thick, baby,” Connor murmurs, pressing his tongue to the underside of Hank’s dick. “I hope I’m not gonna choke on you.”

Hank eyes widen. “Connor.”

“I asked around,” Connor continues. “There are certain patches androids that can install if they want to experience more human sensations. I didn’t really see the point in them at first. But then you asked me about gag reflexes and… well.” He swirls his tongue around the head of Hank’s dick. Hank grips onto his shoulder.

“You didn’t.” 

“I did.” Connor’s teasing him now, putting the tip between his lips and then pulling off with a sweet pop. “I won’t be able to take you as deep with it enabled. I hope that won’t be a problem.”

Hank shakes his head. He’s already imagining Connor choking around his cock, barely able to take half of him without gagging. It’s a pretty image that Hank has to force himself to push to the back of his mind for now, or all this is going to end before it’s even properly begun.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, babydoll.”


	20. belly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Positive weight talk, Connor loves Hank.

“I should lose some weight, right?” Hank is looking at himself in the full length bedroom mirror - a recent addition since Connor moved in, part insistence that Hank should actually look at some of his outfits before leaving the house, part his own insatiable vanity. 

Connor’s head snaps up at the comment, his LED turning a quick, bright round of red. Hank catches the flash out of the corner of his eye, even as Connor brings up his right hand to try and cover it. 

“What?” Hank asks, turning to him. He’s sitting on the bed cross legged, a book propped against one of his delicate ankles. One of Hank’s old band t shirts, too tight on him now, hangs loose around the brackets of his collarbones.

It takes Connor a long moment to formulate an answer. When he speaks, his tone is delicate and measured, as if he is trying to push any emotion out of his words, make them smooth and flat. “Is that… Is that something you would like to do?”

“Eh. I dunno.” Hank’s eyes are back on his own reflection again. He studies the softness of his belly, the way it hangs over the waist of his pyjama pants. “Guess it doesn’t really bother me all that much.” 

There’s no denying that he’s filled out over the past few months, Connor’s gentle requests that they eat dinner together, that Hank takes lunch with him on longer shifts, rather than just grabbing something from the vending machines at work. He feels healthier, happier, sure - but still he’s seen the number on the scales begin to clock steadily upwards. 

Connor frowns. “If it doesn’t bother you, then why would you want to lose weight?”

“Y’know,” Hank shrugs. “I should probably do it for you, right?”

Connor puts his book to one side, kneeling at the edge of the bed so he can be closer to Hank. In the low light from the bedside lamp, his expression is drawn tight and very serious. Hank wonders if his words are some grave mistake.

“Why would you say something like that.” It’s not really a question.

Hank sighs. It’s something that’s been weighing on his mind for a while, but he didn’t think it would be a topic for them to broach in this particular conversation. “Jeez, Con. You don’t wanna be with a fat old man like me. You deserve-”

Connor stops him, launching himself forward off the bed and pulling Hank bodily into a rough embrace. When he speaks, his voice shakes around the edges, crumbling like an autumn leaf. “I deserve you, Hank. I deserve you. I don’t want anyone else.”

Connor’s hands find Hank’s back, his waist, the softness of his belly. “You don't need to change yourself for my benefit. I want you exactly as you are.”

Hank smiles against Connor’s skin, right where the long column of his neck slides to the dip of his shoulder. “Thanks, Con.”

A minute passes where they stand together, intertwined, the lines of their bodies fitting together like they were written to be two parts of the same whole. Connor sighs, content.

“For what it’s worth - I find myself incredibly attracted to you, Hank. Every single part of you.” He nestles in a little closer, letting the flat of his stomach rub against the swell of Hank’s.

Hank kisses him, soft and slow. _For what it’s worth._ It’s worth a lot.


	21. rings & honeymoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Archaeologist/naturalist AU, marriage, poetic.

Hank gives Connor the ring on the third Saturday of a long, hot May. It’s a simple band, engraved with their initials on its smooth inside. The pair of them set together in silver for the rest of their lives. As Hank slips the ring onto Connor’s finger, Connor cries, big, ugly tears that seep through the shoulder of Hank’s cotton shirt.

They are married in June. After all, it doesn’t take long to organise something that was never supposed to happen; they don’t have to worry about getting the law involved, or the clergy. They have a handful of guests each. Hank’s oldest friend, Jeffrey Fowler, acts in the role of officiant, stern and calm as he looks over their folded hands. Connor’s once-upon-a-time beau, Chloe, sits with her own sweetheart, North. 

It’s midsummer's eve. The sun hangs white-gold in a sky that is the very same blue as Hank’s eyes. Hank wears his only fine dinner jacket, black with satin lapels, the elbows worn thin now, the shoulders drawn a little tight. Connor wears white. Hank tells him, as they stand together at the outdoor altar with their hands clasped, that he has found the eighth wonder of the world. He says it so their guests can hear. Connor loves him more than the earth loves the first caress of spring.

Onto Hank’s left ring finger, Connor slides a band that matches the one on his own finger. They kiss, a chaste press of their lips, and Connor cannot help but think of the nights that are to come, nights when he will allow Hank’s mouth to explore every inch of his body, leaving no expanse untouched. Although it’s not a wedding under the strictest definition of the word, it’s enough. It’s more than enough, considering what the modern world will strictly permit them. They shout their love to the canopy of trees and every bird and cricket and beetle cries back. 

They honeymoon on the banks of Lake Superior. It’s not glamorous or expensive, or even particularly far from home, but it suits them. Their cabin is made of rough logs and painted a deep green-brown, the kind of colour that blends seamlessly into the nature around them. Connor has rented it from one of his naturalist friends; it has a wide bay window that overlooks the incredible surface of the lake, as still and quiet and distant as if they are the only two people in the whole world.

It’s too cold to swim in the lake properly, but on their first morning, Connor rolls the hems of his pyjama trousers up to his knees and paddles into the chilly water. Hank watches him from the bank, his bare feet cold on rocks that have barely been warmed by the sun. He sees Connor shiver in the crisp morning air and thinks about kissing every dark freckle on his pale back.

They eat their dinner on the south facing veranda, and Connor dons Hank’s jacket as the evening cools. Hank takes Connor to bed every night of their week-long stay. Connor cries into the mattress beneath Hank’s careful ministrations, the press of his tongue and his rough fingers on every single inch of Connor’s skin.

On their last night it rains, so hard that Connor wonders whether the world around them might cave in upon itself. The temperature drops several degrees, and at night time it is as cold as the beginning of winter. It seems extravagant to light a fire in the middle of June, but Hank does it anyway, filling the grate in the living room. It’s more than worth it when Connor comes to him, the firelight dancing golden on his chest, his brown eyes shadowed. 

Hank tells Connor that he loves him, a thousand times over. Connor counts every single one.


	22. lap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roleplay, lap time.

Connor’s endless, insatiable imagination is what’s going to kill Hank eventually, he’s sure of that. Not that Hank minds in the slightest, death with Connor’s head between his legs would certainly be one of the more favourable ways to go. Occasionally his ideas are extravagant, and other times they’re downright ridiculous. 

Sometimes, though. Sometimes his propositions hit Hank’s desires just perfectly, so in line with what he wants that he has to take several deep breaths - lest his boner ruin the rest of their day.

When Connor suggests that they try roleplay, Hank’s mind is suddenly flooded with so many images of Connor in different roles - dominating, submissive and everything in between - that he doesn’t talk for a good fifteen seconds. Connor looks a little concerned, as if he’s worried he might have said something wrong.

Hank clears his throat. “I think that’s something I’d be interested in.”

Connor chooses the costume, he designs the scene. They both know the safeword if they want to tap out at any opportunity, for whatever reason - that’s been the case since day one.

Hank is instructed to dress “nicely”, and when he asks for more input, Connor chooses him a pair of navy slacks and a white button down. They’re both garments that Hank hasn’t worn in a while and they pull a little across his thighs and stomach, which he realises was probably Connor’s aim, at the end of the day.

Connor’s outfit is so ridiculously sweet that Hank is half-tempted to sack off the whole scene, bend him over the kitchen counter and have his way with him. He’s dressed like a hostess android - one of the servers at the bars downtown who are employed to look after the clients, singing, dancing, conversing in a number of different languages. Sinfully tight pants, lilac-blue, and a white shirt, along with a matching vest that’s cut so close to the narrow slip of his waist that there has to be some kind of law against it.

“You look pretty,” Hank says. He reaches out to put his hand on Connor’s hip. 

Connor gives him a little frown, slapping his hand away. “How can I be of service to you this evening, Mr Anderson?”

Right. Roleplay. Well… If they’re going to do it that way...

“You can call me Lieutenant,” Hank replies.

Connor’s eyes widen a touch and his LED blinks yellow, a crack in his character. Hank grins.

“How can I be of service to you this evening, Lieutenant?” Connor asks, his character reconstructed, every inch polished. 

“Bring me a drink, first thing.” Hank lets his words drawl together, quite enjoying the assumption of the character. He feels powerful, tough - desire crackling in the base of his stomach, already acutely aware of just how tight his pants are.

Connor brings him a soda. Hank knows the roleplay isn’t going to stretch to whiskey, but it’s probably for the best. Definitely for the best.

“You wanna come and sit on my lap?” Hank asks. Connor smiles, a brief flicker at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, Lieutenant. I’m not really supposed to.” All the same, he slinks a little closer, those narrow hips a heaven-sent delight. Hank puts his hand on Connor’s waist, and this time Connor lets it rest there.

“No?” Hank cocks his head to one side, letting his legs fall open. His dick is on the way to full hardness, twitching uncomfortably against his zipper. “You gonna get in trouble?”

Connor nods. “Big trouble.”

“You think you can talk yourself out of it, though? Pretty thing like you?”

Connor pauses, as if he’s considering, although Hank can tell from the look on his face that there’s really no question about what he’s about to do. “Well, I can try. For you.”

And he slides down into Hank’s lap, grazing against his cock in such a deliberate movement that it makes Hank gasp. He rolls his hips, three tight thrusts, before settling himself up against Hank’s chest. Hank lets his hands rest on Connor’s hips, certain that in this getup he could encircle his waist completely in his hands. Connor smirks, his expression devilish.


	23. marking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Senator Anderson AU, belt spanking.

The sound of the senator’s belt sliding out of its loops is like music to Connor’s ears. He’s bent over the broad face of the desk in Hank’s home study, rich, soft furnishings, jewel colours, the low lamp light bathing everything in gold. Somewhere in the room a record is playing: smooth jazz, Hank’s favourite. Connor can barely hear it. There’s more for him to focus on. 

It’s a quiet set up. Connor’s mind buzzes so loudly that he’s surprised Hank can’t hear it. 

There’s the press of Hank’s legs, thick and wide against the bare skin of Connor’s upper thighs. The clink of the heavy silver belt buckle. Connor knows this is one of Hank’s monogrammed ones - he’s been staring at it all evening, after all. A rustle as he adjusts his pants around his waist. And then. The cool brush of the leather over the skin of his ass. Connor tenses, his shoulders wired and tight with electricity. 

“You’re shameless.” Hank says, his low voice rumbling through Connor like an incoming storm. One of his hands paws at Connor’s thigh and Connor gasps around his own fist, his fingers balled tight beneath his chin. 

“Staring at me like that. Touching me like that.” Hank presses the belt against Connor’s skin once more, and Connor can feel his hips rise to meet the leather. It had been a long meeting, and Connor couldn’t resist letting his glances linger a little, not to mention the brush of his fingers - touches at Hank’s elbow, his shoulder, the inside of his knee. Even Hank’s warning glances had not been enough to deter him; Connor’s desire to touch drove through him like wildfire.

“You want everyone to see that you’re mine?” Hank’s hand grips harder.

“Yes,” Connor whines it around his own fingers. “Yes. I want everyone to know.”

Hank makes a rough noise in the back of his throat. His arousal is hot and hard. “Jesus. You’re insatiable.”

There’s barely a warning before Hank’s belt snaps through the air and lands sharply on the soft flesh of Connor’s ass. The pain makes him cry out, crackling through him, high and clear and glorious.

“This is gonna leave a mark, boy.” Hank says, brushing a gentle finger over Connor’s skin, where he can already feel a bright welt raising. 

“Good.”

He’d wear Hank’s mark on every inch of his skin. Every one more precious than the finest jewel. 

Hank raises the belt again.


	24. white

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ballet AU, human Stern brothers.

“So, this is the prince’s main costume,” Connor explains, pulling the hanger off the rail and holding the outfit up with both hands. High waisted pants and a ribbed undershirt; white from head to toe. Niles examines it, passing the fabric between his finger and thumb with practised consideration.

“Very demure.”

Connor feels a little damned by his brother’s faint praise. He knows full well that Niles could have danced this role himself, once upon a time, and doubtless he would have done a far more admirable job than Connor. He always does.

“It’s supposed to be,” Connor frowns, sliding the clothes back onto the rack. Niles ignores him, rifling through the costume rail for more interesting things to comment on.

“And what about your swan? Has he been cast yet?”

Connor stalls. This is the question that he’s been both dreading and longing for ever since Niles turned up at his door that morning. He tries to play it cool.

“Oh. Hank Anderson is dancing the swan.”

That stops Niles in his tracks, halfway through studying the hem of one of the queen’s silk gowns. He drops the garment, letting it flutter back into place like water over pebbles.

“Hank Anderson is dancing in the same production as you?”

Connor tries not to focus on Niles’ very particular intonation. He nods. “Yes.”

Niles has never been one for emoting particularly strongly - not through his face, or his voice, or his… anything, really. All the same, he takes a step back and looks Connor up and down, his eyebrows slightly raised in an expression of barely concealed astonishment. Does he maybe even look proud, beneath it all?

“Christ, I saw him dance the prince decades ago,” Niles says, recalling the old videotaped performance that he and Connor used to run over and over, sitting together in their shared bedroom at their mother’s house. “Hank Anderson. Wow.”

As if speaking his name has cast some wonderful, terrible spell, the door at the far end of the corridor opens and Hank walks through it. He raises a hand at Connor, hitching his holdall higher up onto his shoulder. He’s wearing a pair of worn, light wash jeans and a white t-shirt that shows off the broad swell of his biceps, the thick trunk of his waist. Connor’s almost embarrassed at how disgustingly good he looks, and in spite of himself, he can feel his cheeks colouring.

As always, Niles’ gaze is analytical and exacting, and he grins at the brief interaction. 

“Oh, Connor, of course, I’d forgotten,” he says, his tone slick and sweet. He hasn’t forgotten anything at all, he’s just being a dick. Connor wants to slap him. “So how has that been going, dancing with your childhood crush?”

There’s no point denying his crush - bright and glaring and obvious as it is, even now, years and years later. Fully rekindled by spending hours of every day pressed up against Hank’s chest, or clasped in the bough of his strong arms. Niles can see straight through him like a pane of glass. 

Connor clenches his jaw and needlessly rearranges some of the clothes on the rail before them. “It’s fine.”


	25. stasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reverse AU.

Lieutenant Connor Stern has never been very good at sleeping. The nighttime has always eluded him, and even as a child, he would push himself until the very last sleepless minute before collapsing onto his bed for ten, twelve, sometimes fourteen hours. 

Of course, this unhealthy pattern is something that HK800 instantly zeroes in on. He can track all of Connor’s vitals with a flicker of his eyelid, and he notes those nights where Connor goes without sleep - or else sleeps fitfully and wakes with puffy eyes and hair curled into a bird’s nest. 

Hank doesn’t sleep either, of course. Or at least, that’s what Connor thinks to begin with. The third time Hank confronts him about the dark shadows beneath his eyes, Connor snaps.

“What the fuck would you know about it?”

Hank stares him down, those incredible blue eyes that Connor thinks are exactly what glaciers must look like.

“If I don’t enter stasis on a nightly basis, my processes begin to run much more slowly.” Connor’s brow knits tight, and Hank gives him a small, smug grin. “You’re not so different from me, Lieutenant Stern.”

Connor doesn’t comment, but the thought rests in his mind like a polished pebble at the bottom of a pool. The thought of Hank sleeping, taking that nightly stasis period where he becomes softened, slowed.

Even when they start sleeping together - a gasping connection of mouths and Connor’s hip all but thrown out as Hank bends him in two over the kitchen counter - it’s a while before he sees Hank in stasis. When he finally does, it’s as if he’s been granted access to some incredible secret, one that was previously locked away tight in the white-blue cage of Hank’s chassis.

He hasn’t slept properly in five nights, when it happens. Sleep comes in twenty minute bursts, too hot, too cold, yearning for the first crack of the morning. He falls asleep and Hank is in the living room, ostensibly sorting through some case files and preparing for the next day.

He wakes. The house is quiet, his bed is empty. He turns over and when he finally drifts off again, the anxious beat of his own heart is the only soundtrack. 

He wakes. His bed is warm. Hank is beside him. He’s lying down and his eyes are closed; Connor can see from the dappling on the opposite wall that his LED is spinning, yellow, blue, and back. So this is stasis. He looks peaceful, peaceful and handsome, his profile like a Roman bust - that strong nose, those silver curls pressed against the hard, severe line of his brow bone.

Connor thinks he loves him, although he doesn’t want to say it yet. Instead he contents himself with moving in closer and resting his head on Hank’s chest. He doesn’t want to wake him, if that’s even possible, but being as close as possible to him right now seems like the right place to be. There’s no heartbeat, no rise and fall of his ribcage, but in their stead a deep, sonorous click and whirr, the beats of his systems. Connor listens to them, and loves them, one hand resting over the glowing ring of Hank’s thirium pump. 

That night, sleep comes more easily to him than he can ever remember.


	26. connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Senator Anderson AU, orgasm denial.

Connor has his instructions. Hank is away on business for ten days, the sunny West Coast holiday home of some nouveau riche family who have promised to put a lot of money into Hank’s most recent campaign. And while he’s gone, Connor is not allowed to come. He can touch himself - especially if that’s what Hank asks him to do, in his short messages, curt and straight to the point - but he’s not to come.

By the end of the second day, Connor’s sure he’s going to be fine. He keeps himself busy and mostly, keeps his hands to himself. 

But as the days pass, his phone begins to buzz more and more frequently, and nearly every time, it’s Hank. A dark and delicious selection of photos, none of which leave much to the imagination or hide any of Hank’s intentions. And it seems his main intention is to make the rest of his absence a living, fiery hell. 

First, it’s a picture of him on a sun lounger, wearing some bright Hawaiian number that Connor is certain he must have purchased out there - he doesn’t have anything like it in his wardrobe of navy suits and sinfully tailored white shirts. The image makes Connor feel fond, mostly, until he imagines lying there alongside him, heat-soaked skin, the taste of Hank’s sweat at his collarbone.

Next it’s a picture of Hank’s bedroom, a huge bed, soft light, white linen and an open window that overlooks the sea. Hank accompanies the photo with a brief message: “Wish you were here”. Connor palms himself through his pants and tries valiantly to get on with organising their next fundraiser. 

One evening, although really it’s the middle of the night for Connor, he sends him a video. When the notification pops up, Connor almost, almost ignores it in favour of rolling over and trying to get some damn sleep. But he can’t resist, the combination of his insatiable curiosity and the lure of being close to Hank is too much. 

The video is short, but the content of it is enough to make Connor play it over and over, rolled onto his front and pressing his hips into the mattress. Hank’s thick dick, leaking precome into the silver hair on his belly, one broad hand stroking along the length and then- stop. Connor groans his frustration into the pillow.

By the sixth day, Connor’s sure he’s going to go crazy. He spends his days in a state of semi-arousal, every tiny thing reminding him of Hank: pulling to the forefront of his mind the soft brush of his hand at the back of Connor’s neck, the insistent press of his fingers as he holds Connor tightly against him.

One week in, Hank calls him. Finally. Connor’s in his apartment, curled up on the sofa watching an old film and pretending that it doesn’t make him hard every time the main characters kiss or hold hands.

Hank’s voice is low at the end of the line, and Connor imagines that he can hear the sea crashing in the background. Perhaps Hank is standing out on that wide balcony; perhaps the sun has caught his cheekbones and turned them lightly freckled. He holds his breath. 

“Hello, baby.” There’s a soft edge to Hank’s voice that makes Connor’s heart ache. God, he wants to see him, to have those big arms hold him from behind and press his belly against his back.

“Hank.” Connor’s voice is a whine, and he can hear Hank chuckle.

“Have you been good for me, boy?” He asks, and Connor nods, despite the fact that Hank can’t see him.

“I’ve been good. I promise.”

“I bet you have. You’re always so good.” Hank’s voice has a deep, caramel sweetness to it that makes a soft moan fall from Connor’s lips. 

“I don’t think I can wait four more days, Ha- Sir.”

There’s a pause at the end of the line. “Hm. Is that so?”

“I need to come, Sir, please.” His voice is rough and desperate and he is not even remotely ashamed of the fact; he’s achingly hard from just this short exchange. Hank makes a noise of consideration on the end of the line.

“Let’s see,” Hank says. Connor imagines him sinking onto his private sun lounger, sliding his hand down the front of his pants. “Let me tell you what I want to do to you first.”


	27. flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ballet AU.

The first night of their run receives them a standing ovation. Of course they do. Connor is the most phenomenal young dancer to emerge in several years, and Hank’s reputation earns the performance so much extra gravitas that it becomes a supernova, exploding out of their control.

As soon as the curtain falls for the final time, obscuring the enraptured audience, chaos descends on the stage. Producers, stage managers, choreographers all wanting to shake Hank’s hand, and Connor’s, and to give them notes and congratulations and pats on the back. In the melee, Connor disappears from Hank’s view, doubtless pulled off to make costume alterations or give an interview. 

He’s the only person that Hank wants to see right now. He extracts himself carefully from the throngs of people, making his way through the wings and down into the back of the theatre building where the dressing rooms are. Connor’s is right at the end - and if Hank knows anything about him, this is the first place that he will head after being accosted by the post-show crowd. 

Connor’s dressing room is filled with flowers. Piled on every surface, in vases, in pots, in loose sprays tied with ribbons. Yellow poppies and purple irises, several different types of lilies with heavy silken petals and dusty, golden anthers. A bouquet of red roses sits right in front of the mirror, the lights around it making their blooms shine.

Connor is seated in the middle of it all. He’s still wearing his final act costume, a pair of loose, white pyjamas, bare feet. He looks a little shell-shocked. 

“Hello.”

Hank steps into the room, clicking the door shut behind him. “Hi, baby.”

“All of these flowers are for me.”

Hank nods. “Yeah, they are.” His chest is so full of pride for this man that it’s a wonder it doesn’t just fill his throat and spill out of his mouth in a great sob.

“I did a good job.” Connor says, and his voice lifts around the edges like it’s a question.

“Connor,” Hank reaches out for him, and Connor puts his hands into Hank’s own. “You were perfection. You’re a goddamn fucking star.”

Connor smiles, his expression trembling with barely contained emotion. Hank pulls him up to his feet, wrapping his arms around him - one arm over his shoulders, one around his narrow waist. 

And then suddenly Connor is kissing him and his face is wet with tears, although Hank cannot be sure which one of them is crying.

“Thank you. I love you.” Connor says these words over and over until they fall into obscurity, punctuating them with open-mouthed kisses to the softness of Hank’s bottom lip, his jawline, the column of his neck. Hank loops his hands under the back of Connor’s thighs and hitches him onto the top of the dressing table. The vase of roses wobbles alarmingly, and Connor sticks out a hand to steady it.

“Do you think we have time?” Connor asks, although his hands are already busy unlacing the back of Hank’s pants. 

“Probably not,” Hank replies. His hands find the satin buttons of Connor’s shirt, pulling them through with clumsy fingers.

“We shouldn’t really keep people waiting,” Connor says, and he grabs at Hank’s dick through the thin cotton of his underwear. 

Hank hisses at the sudden touch, fully aware that he’s already more than half hard. Adrenaline floods him in a bright wave. “No, we shouldn’t.”

“Ten minutes?” Connor asks. His tongue licks into Hank’s mouth.

“Make it five.” Hank replies. He takes one of the roses from the bouquet, its dark stem completely dethorned, of course, and slides it behind Connor’s ear. 

Connor tilts his head. God, he’s gorgeous. That sweet, sharp face cut from the same stuff as what stars and roses are made of. “Big talk, Mr Anderson.”

Hank kisses him.


	28. distracted

The bow of Connor’s top lip, from which the most accomplished archer could flight their arrows. In his mind, his own mouth pressed against it.

Those long hands, pale and slender, the tight knot of bone at the side of his wrist. Those dexterous fingers, manicured illusion of nails. Hank imagines Connor sliding one finger inside him, then two, scissoring against the resistance of Hank’s body. Putting his tongue down in one flat lathe.

The narrow cradle of his hips, his thighs. How his hamstrings become strained and taut as Hank bends him in two, his knees at his ears. How he owns his body, how confident he is in his own creation. He hides away certain parts of himself and only lets Hank see them - the different plates he installs between his legs, sometimes soaking his underwear straight through, even when his face is as impassive as a clear sky. 

These are the thoughts in Hank’s head. They drive him to distraction without fail, occupying the corners of his mind until he does something about them. He runs his hand over the small of Connor’s back in the break room - the delicate curve of his hip that Hank knows down to the skin and then further, further beneath.


	29. date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date night, public, coming in clothes.

The film isn’t very good. Hank hadn’t had high hopes to start with, but Connor had wanted to go and see “something, at least, please”. Connor’s new found love of consuming media in a conventional, human way is something that Hank finds incredibly endearing, knowing full well that he could just stream the films on his HUD in more than double time, taking in all of the necessary information. Connor likes to take Hank out on dates; he likes to hold his hand in the quiet and the dark.

But this evening isn’t going quite as planned. The movie theatre is practically empty, and the plot of the film is so convoluted that Hank quickly begins to lose track of it. Connor must be feeling the same, shifting restlessly in his seat beside him. Half an hour in, he leans over and presses his mouth against Hank’s ear. 

“This movie isn’t very good,” Connor mutters. 

“You wanna go?” Hank asks.

Connor tilts his head to one side, considering. “Not yet. Let’s see what happens.”

It all sounds innocent enough, but the way that Connor’s hand quickly finds Hank’s knee makes him think that he might have other, less wholesome intentions. Hank glances across at him. Connor’s gaze is fixed forwards, resolute, the perfect line of his profile flickering in the blue-white light from the screen. 

The calm stillness in his expression is not reflected in the movement of his hand - a quick, firm stroke up the inside of Hank’s thigh. Suddenly, Hank doesn’t give a shit whether he understands the plot of the film or not. Connor cups his dick through the rough denim, and Hank’s hips jerk sharply into the touch. 

“Connor.” He hisses it, and if Connor weren’t so finely attuned to everything, Hank would be unsure whether he’d heard him or not. 

“Do you want me to stop?” Connor asks, his voice close and low. Once upon a time, Hank would’ve said yes, turned away his partner’s advances in such a public place. But now? Fuck. It’s Connor. Connor, whose touch is so bright and so electric that Hank is hungry for it all the time. The idea of someone catching him coming apart beneath Connor’s hand makes a delicious thrill spark in his stomach. Hank shakes his head, almost imperceptible in the dark. Don’t stop. 

Connor’s smile is a tiny, shadowed curve. The motion of his hand is consistent and punishing, and Hank is fully hard in a matter of minutes. He twists his hips, straining uncomfortably against the front of his pants. In an ordinary scenario, Connor would just pull out his dick and wrap his hand around it, or else the hot slick of his mouth and tongue. But there’s something a little different about this. Hank grips hard to the armrest and tries to keep his breathing even. 

It doesn’t take long before Hank is dangerously close to the edge, release curled tight and white hot in the depth of his gut. Connor continues his ministrations, seemingly unaware of the changes in Hank’s breathing, the way his hips are bucking and rolling against his palm.

“Connor.” On the screen, some grand plot reveal is taking place. Hank closes his eyes tight, concentrates hard on not coming in his pants - and goddamn if that thought isn’t bizarrely, stupidly sexy. 

“Hm?” Connor’s mouth is against his ear again. “Is everything okay, Lieutenant?”

Hank responds with a shuddering breath, his body pulled taut with the effort of holding back.

“I’d like you to come,” Connor murmurs, sweet and earnest. “I’d like to see you come.”

And that’s enough, the final push that forces Hank over the edge. His orgasm rolls through him like thunder, growing steady and dark to a bright, crashing fork of lightning. A strangled gasp escapes him - he bites down on the soft of his own palm to keep from crying out. Doubled over, he spills sticky and hot into his underwear, his dick twitching desperately against his still closed zipper.

Connor hums against his ear, seemingly satisfied. Hank shudders, and Connor kisses along the line of his neck. “We can go home now, Hank.”


	30. car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comfort, soft, lap time.

Stakeouts have always been Hank’s least favourite part of the job. Stress and boredom distilled down into one dangerous cocktail, long night time hours alone with the black fog of his thoughts. A perfect opportunity to overthink, a thick soup of anxiety boiling in his guts.

Connor doesn’t enjoy stakeouts either, but Hank knows that it is for a different reason. He feels underused, his endless skills wasted sitting in a cafe or a car or holed up in some old hotel room. Sitting with Connor on a stakeout is like sitting with a humming electrical wire; he stays still and absolutely focused, providing unnecessary updates and running unnecessary processes simply to keep himself busy.

They both work hard to avoid this particular method of catching a suspect, and yet… Here they are. In Hank’s car, pulled up on the side of the road and watching a downtown apartment block. No one has passed by them for the past hour or so, and Connor’s coin is becoming a blur as it flickers through his fingers.

“This is pointless, Hank,” Connor says, his voice drawn in tight and sharp.

“I know that,” Hank replies, taking a sip of coffee from the flask in the cupholder. It’s bitter and half cold. “I hate this just as much as you.”

Connor’s LED flickers in a sputtering yellow-blue pattern. “Using patterns in our files, I’m analysing the likelihood of any suspect entering or exiting the building. It’s less than twenty percent.” 

Less than twenty percent. Facts like that don’t fill Hank with much joy, in fact, it adds a certain hopelessness to a job that he was loathing in the first place. He contemplates the possibilities.

“Are you tense, baby?” Hank asks. He doesn’t look at Connor, but he can tell that Connor flicks his head to look at him - incredulous, perhaps, anyone could see that he is tied tense at his very core. 

“A little.” Connor’s voice is brittle. Hank touches the outside of his knee.

“You wanna come and sit over here?” It’s a stupid idea perhaps, and certainly unprofessional, but Hank doesn’t really care anymore. Connor’s discomfort radiates through him and he will do anything he can to lessen it.

“There’s no space,” Connor says, his gaze snapped forward again.

“In my lap,” Hank elaborates. “You wanna?”

Connor’s tension rolls through him, a visible wave that crackles and floods through his shoulders, breaking against his sternum. His chest slumps forward. He gives a shaking imitation of a breath.

“Yes, please.”

“C’mon then,” Hank says, stretching out one arm. 

Connor clambers over the partition in their seats, as awkward as it is possible for him to be - that incredible, exacting delicacy in his movements. His legs straddle Hank’s on either side, their chests pressed together. 

“Can you-”

Hank preempts it. “I can still see the mark. You relax, okay?” His hand finds the small of Connor’s back and presses a circle there. 

He feels Connor soften against him, some of that tension loosen out of taut strings of his body. 

“Thank you,” he mutters, his mouth against the soft skin at the top of Hank’s shoulder. 

“You’re good, baby. It’s good.”


	31. aftercare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bottom Connor, multiple orgasms, aftercare.

“Hank!” Connor’s voice is mostly static now, breaking and crackling around the sharp consonants of Hank’s name. Hank flicks his tongue over Connor’s clit and feels his hips twist desperately into the pressure. “Hank, I’m-”

And that’s all the warning either of them get. Connor’s back arches off the bed, a gorgeous bow, shoulders and ankles pulling tight against the restraints that have kept him bound to their bedframe for the past few hours. His mouth falls open in a small ‘oh’, lips pink and wet and perfect, his LED spiralling red, yellow, red. He barely makes a sound, but Hank can feel him inside, pulsing around his fingers.

“And that’s seven,” Hank kisses the inside of Connor’s knee. “Lucky number seven. Proud of you, honey.”

He lets his fingers slide out of Connor with a slick sound. Connor watches with a longing, fucked out expression as he puts his own fingers into his mouth and licks Connor off them - sharp, metallic, entirely distinct. There’s a sharp whine, like an old computer struggling with too many processes.

Hank has learned that the aftercare that Connor needs on evenings like this - two orgasms on Hank’s dick and then however many more drawn out of him by Hank’s fingers and tongue - is not all that different from the aftercare that a human might require. His skin may not need to physically repair after being in restraints, but he still needs to be gently considered and taken care of. Built back up by the hands that so expertly took him apart.

When Hank unravels the knots at Connor’s wrists, he takes care to rub his fingers softly over the places where Connor’s skin fades away, rippling blue and white like the surface of a pool. He kisses his wrists, his upper arms, his ankles. 

Connor is a marvel. Made tough, made ruthless, with an edge to him that is as hard as diamond. But he bends for Hank like a flower in a rainstorm, like Hank is the sunlight. Hank has learned how important his voice can be in these situations too, his praise, his soft adoration.

“You did such a good job today,” Hank moves his hand between Connor’s shoulder blades, feels the tight knot of tension there loosen slightly. “So good, coming so many times for me.”

Connor keens, allowing Hank to lift him so that he’s sitting up in the bough of his arms. Hank pulls him close, Connor’s back against his belly, and settles in against the headrest. Connor slumps against him, boneless, Hank’s hand resting over the glowing ring of his thirium pump. Gentle, grounding. 

“You’re beautiful, Connor. So sweet and strong and good for me.” Hank murmurs, his mouth in the soft, dark curls at Connor’s temple. “You okay?”

Connor nods, turning his head so that he can rest his cheek against Hank’s collarbone. He doesn’t say anything yet - he doesn’t need to. Hank speaks gentle things against his skin, holds him tight until the high thrumming of his wires calms somewhat.

“I love you, Connor.”

Connor gives a shuddering, contented breath. 

“I love you, Hank.”


End file.
